Une Nuit
by Souris
Summary: It's the WAREHOUSE chapter!
1. Los Angeles

Une Nuit   
By: Souris  
Rated: R  
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.  
Category: Action/Adventure/Romance (with a generous dollop of angst); S/V of course (may I be smote down if ever write anything else)  
Feedback: Yes, please!  
Summary: A mission doesn't go quite as planned, which leads to something unexpected for Sydney and Vaughn.  
Author's Note: I started with the basic plot of my previous story "The French Connection" and ultimately took it in a different direction. Lots more action, lots more angst, lots more amour. The first part of this story is pretty much the same, then it diverges. You don't need to have read "The French Connection" first. As before, just pretend that the characters are talking in French where appropriate. Although I did throw in a few phrases here and there to set the ambience. And thanks to Bella for the beta-read!  
  
  
SD-6 briefing room, Credit Dauphine  
Los Angeles  
  
"Your next mission is to retrieve this." Sloane pressed a button on his computer, and a black-and-white picture popped up on all of their monitors. Sydney squinted at it. It appeared to be some sort of coin or medallion, marked with numbers and letters and some figures which she didn't recognize.  
  
"What is it?" Dixon asked.  
  
"A medallion on which Milo Rambaldi is said to have inscribed a formula for an elixir that would instill eternal life. We know what the front looks like from this drawing in a 16th-century manuscript, but the formula is incomplete without the back. The medallion was thought lost or destroyed -- or apocryphal. But now it has turned up in the private collection of a Frenchman named Henri Sanguinet."  
  
"Sanguinet -- hasn't he been accused of illegally influencing international trading?" Sydney asked.  
  
"Only by rumor. He's far too smart to allow any evidence to surface. He's a powerful man, and he wants to become more powerful. Being able to live forever would certainly give him that. We want that medallion in our possession, not his." Sloane walked around the table until he was standing next to Sydney. Far too close, she thought, and forced herself not to flinch away. "On Friday, he is holding a party at his home outside Rouen to unveil a previously unknown Monet painting that he has recently acquired. The two of you will attend. During the unveiling, Sydney will sneak into the library and retrieve the medallion from his safe. Marshall."  
  
"What??" Marshall started at Sloane's unexpected attention.  
  
"The medallion," Sloane gritted.  
  
"Oh, yeah." Marshall began digging in his pockets. He deposited a handful of coins onto the table. "Here -- no, that's a dollar. See, it has Sacagawea on it, have you seen them? People don't really use them, which is a shame because they're more durable than paper and -- oh, sorry, Mr. Sloane." He pulled out a half-gone roll of Certs. "Breath mint?" he offered Sydney. "I mean, not that I think you *need* one. You have nice breath. I mean -- no? OK."  
  
Sydney glanced at the table, knowing that she dare not meet Dixon's eye for fear of bursting into laughter.  
  
"Ah, here it is!" Marshall cried triumphantly, pulling it out of his shirt pocket. "You'll replace the real medallion with this one. He'll discover it as soon as he looks at it closely again, but it should buy some time."  
  
Sydney nodded and took the medallion from him. It was golden and roughly the size of a half-dollar. "What kind of safe does Sanguinet have?"  
  
"It's an enhanced single-keypad safe with an eight-digit passcode. Marshall!"  
  
This time Marshall was ready. "Yes, sir." He picked up the slim cell phone in front of him. "Looks like a cell phone, right?" He touched it briefly to his ear, then lowered it. "But it's really a digital codebreaker. State of the art. Just put it against the keypad like this, press star-411 -- information, get it? -- and the passcode you need to enter will show up in the message area."  
  
"That's everything, then." They all stood at Sloane's curt dismissal. "Sanguinet's dangerous, Sydney. Be careful," he said as Sydney reached the door. She looked back and nodded, strangely disquieted by something in his expression.  
  
  
Warehouse, City of Industry  
  
Sydney sat on one of the crates, her legs crossed and her back against the chain-link fence, looking up at Vaughn. It was not an unpleasant view.  
  
"We want you to complete the mission. Only really for us. The CIA doesn't believe that such a formula exists, but just in case, we'd rather not risk an eternal SD-6." He handed her a file. "This is Agent Phillipe Gilbert. He'll be at the party, too. After you've stolen the medallion and replaced it with the one that Marshall gave you, you'll make a switch with Gilbert. He'll give you a forgery that *we're* making. I'd give it to you now, but unfortunately it's not ready. The tech boys are having a little trouble coming up with something on short notice that they think will keep SD-6 busy for a while. It'll be ready by tonight, but not in time for your flight."  
  
She nodded and opened the file. "He's cute."  
  
"If you like that sort of thing," Vaughn said somewhat huffily.  
  
"What? Attractive Frenchmen?" She couldn't completely suppress a smile at Vaughn's reaction. He looked *so* put-out. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he finally seemed to realize that she was teasing him.  
  
He gave a rueful smile in response. "He's a good agent, but he, well, he tends to be rather *enthusiastic* about his usual playboy cover."  
  
"Ah. One of *those*."  
  
"So don't, you know, belt him one or anything. At least until *after* you make the exchange."  
  
"I think I can handle myself with any agent you send me."  
  
"I'm sure you can." He smiled. "Bon chance, Sydney." 


	2. Rouen 1

Estate of Henri Sanguinet  
Outskirts of Rouen, France  
  
Sydney let her gaze wander casually around the ballroom, looking for Agent Gilbert. She couldn't find him. That was unsettling, because it was only a little more than an hour until the unveiling. Was he in disguise, or -- suddenly, she found her eyes meeting those of Michael Vaughn. After a second or two of absolute shock, she snapped her gaze to her wine glass. What the hell was he doing here? Clearly, something must have happened to Gilbert. Was Vaughn taking his place? Was the plan still on?   
  
She forced herself to turn her back to him and wander about the room, feigning interest in the artwork on the walls, smiling pleasantly at guests, engaging in idle chitchat. But still her mind whirled. She was well-trained to react smoothly to any unforeseen changes in plans, but his presence had thrown her oddly off-kilter.  
  
Try as she might, she couldn't avoid stealing a glance or two in his direction. He was surrounded by a small cluster of attractive women. A stunning blonde in an inappropriately low-cut red dress had practically attached herself to him. Was she another agent? Sydney wondered. No, she decided, she was trying far too hard to monopolize his attention. Sydney could hear her peals of laughter all the way across the room. Surely Vaughn wouldn't find such a shameless display of flirting *attractive*. It was really quite sickening.   
  
Although, if truth be told, she couldn't fault the woman for her taste. He did look damn good in a tuxedo. Even if she hadn't known him, he would have drawn her eyes. There were plenty of good-looking men at the party, but he stood out. Speaking as an impartial observer, of course.  
  
"You should ask him to dance."  
  
She started at Dixon's voice. God, she'd not even noticed him approaching! "What are you talking about?"  
  
"I've seen you looking at that popular young Frenchman across the room. And I assure you, he's noticed you, too."  
  
"Dixon, don't be silly, I can't --"  
  
"Sure you can. We have almost an hour until the unveiling. Sydney, you deserve a little fun. Go on. It's just one dance."  
  
Sydney started to protest, but then she realized that it would be a perfect chance to find out what was going on without arousing Dixon's suspicions. Now that he had already noticed Vaughn, this was the easiest way. They'd just have to be sure that Dixon never, ever saw Vaughn again.  
  
"Are you sure he noticed me?" she asked, exasperated that Vaughn had been caught looking at her -- conveniently forgetting that she had been guilty of the same crime. He must not have been in the field for a while. "It seems like he has enough to notice right in front of him."  
  
"Oh, yeah, he noticed you. How could he not in that dress?" Dixon teased.   
  
Sydney smiled and set her wine glass down on a side table. "If he turns me down, Dixon, you're buying me lunch for a week."  
  
"He won't."  
  
Sydney felt strangely nervous as she walked across the room, almost as if she were worried that he *would* say "no." The room seemed somehow larger than it had before, but at least she was afforded the best, longest look at him that she had enjoyed all evening. There was no denying it: he was an amazingly attractive man. It was almost criminal for him to look as good as he did in a tuxedo. She couldn't stop herself from letting her eyes roam over the slim length of his body. The tuxedo had to have been made for him; it fit him perfectly. There was something a little different about his hair. It was more tousled than usual, making her fingers itch to tousle it even further. He also had a noticeable five o'clock shadow, giving him a rakish, sexy edge quite different from his usual conservative sleekness.  
  
There was absolutely no reason for her to feel this nervous.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Vaughn noticed Sydney walking toward him with a mixture of consternation and confusion. What the hell was she doing about to make contact with him so openly? Obviously she had a reason, but it seemed an unnecessary risk. Dixon would surely notice, and God knows who else. He would be shocked if K-Directorate didn't have an agent here tonight.  
  
But he couldn't ignore the exhilaration that he felt at seeing her approach him, either. She looked ... amazing. She made a stunning redhead, and her short dress clung to her body like a second skin. He tried to damp down the desire that immediately surged through him. Suddenly, the danger they faced from Sanguinet somehow seemed secondary to the danger of Sydney Bristow walking toward him in a tight black dress.  
  
He had been extremely annoyed when Gilbert called him from the airport as they loaded him into the ambulance. It had been an accident, but he had been furious at how it might affect Sydney's safety. He had had little chance to think throughout his frantic preparations for leaving and picking up the medallion from Gilbert at the hospital. But as he had settled into his seat on the plane, the annoyance had changed to anticipation. He was going to get to see Sydney in action, and not only that, he was going to get to help her, to work side-by-side with her. He hadn't quite realized how desperately he had wanted that until the opportunity was presented to him.  
  
He prayed that he wouldn't do anything to mess things up. Apart from a few missions, he had never really been a field agent. So far, though, things had gone fine. He had tried to assume Gilbert's cover as a playboy race-car driver as best he could. He certainly didn't have Gilbert's enthusiasm for the part, but he must be doing well enough, if the women around him were any indication. It was flattering, of course, and a great benefit for his cover, but he really would have preferred they go away. He had danced with a couple of them -- the blonde in the red dress, Monique, had been practically insistent -- but they were distracting, and the only woman there whom he wanted to spend time with was the one woman he couldn't.  
  
But now she was walking toward him, and adrenaline surged through his body.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Monsieur, je me demandais si vous voudriez danser?" She couldn't help notice the rather murderous glare that the blonde shot her, and she felt inordinately pleased.  
  
Vaughn raised one eyebrow, and she was quite sure that she had never seen anything sexier in her life. He rather blatantly looked her up and down. "Naturellement, mademoiselle Je suis ˆ votre service. Pour danser...." He let the sentence trail off suggestively. Without breaking eye contact with Sydney, he handed his wine glass to the blonde, who looked as if she had just been presented with a dead fish. Oh, *perfect,* Sydney thought, feeling a bubble of laughter well up in her throat. She couldn't help shooting the woman a rather smug glance as Vaughn took her hand and led her to the dance floor.  
  
The band was playing a soft, romantic tune that she didn't recognize. They settled into each other's arms and began to move in time to the music. "What are you doing?" they hissed at the same moment.  
  
Their eyes met, and he nodded for her to go ahead.  
  
"What happened to Gilbert?" she asked.  
  
"He broke his ankle at the airport." He rolled his eyes at her quizzical look. "Don't ask. I think it involved a flight attendant and a baggage carousel. Anyway, there wasn't enough time to brief anybody else and pick up the medallion from him, so here I am."  
  
She glanced at the group of women who were still clustered where they had left them, looking variously glum and perturbed. "You seem to have slipped into Gilbert's cover successfully."  
  
He grimaced, but she detected a faint redness rising on his cheeks. "Hey, don't act so surprised. But if I have to listen to *Monique* laugh in my ear much longer, I'm going to go deaf."  
  
I knew he wouldn't find her attractive, she thought with satisfaction. "The sacrifices we make for our country."  
  
"My turn. Why did you ask me to dance?" he asked. "We weren't supposed to make contact until after you got the medallion. Dixon had to have seen you."  
  
"Dixon noticed you staring at me and insisted that I ask you to dance. Not very stealthy, Agent Vaughn."  
  
"I was *not* staring. I may have *looked* once or twice, but I was not *staring*," he protested quietly. Oh, God, *had* he been staring? Vaughn wondered, abashed. He had tried very hard not to. Of course, he had caught *her* looking at *him* a time or two. "Anyway, what gave him the idea that you would *want* to dance with me?"  
  
"I don't know."   
  
Was that a bit of a blush he spied on her cheeks? She wasn't meeting his eyes, and he couldn't help smiling a little. "Busted, Agent Bristow?" he whispered.  
  
"I was very surprised to see you," she said.   
  
"OK," he said, instilling a note of teasing disbelief into his voice, and her eyes flashed up to his. She smiled in spite of herself.  
  
There seemed nothing else to say then. They relaxed into the dance, their bodies moving in unison to the music. Sydney concentrated on the sensations that were filling her mind. His grip was strong but gentle -- just right. He smelled of cologne and soap and a scent that she had learned was distinctly him. He made her feel ... comfortable. Most of all, she felt the electric warmth where his hand rested against the small of her back, bare where her dress scooped down to just below her waist. She could almost imagine how it would feel if he moved his hand over her back, his palm igniting her skin.  
  
There was a pleasant fire in his hand where it touched her bare back. Her skin was so soft, it was all he could do not to caress more of it, all of it. He felt a little intoxicated at being this close to her, moving with her. The very air that surrounded them seemed to hum along with the music. He knew that he shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he was, but God, it was wonderful and arousing, and it was only for a few moments. Surely they deserved a few moments.  
  
Suddenly, she stiffened, the mood broken. "What is it?" he asked, immediately tuned in to her tension.  
  
"Anna." Sydney turned them so that her back was to Anna Espinosa. "In the corner, beside the Picasso-wannabe. Vaughn, I can't wait for the unveiling. I have to move now."  
  
He nodded, his mind snapping back to business. "Need someone to distract her?"  
  
"That would be helpful." She hesitated. "She knows Dixon."  
  
"She doesn't know me."  
  
Sydney felt a sudden grip of fear, realizing that she didn't want Vaughn anywhere near Anna Espinosa, anywhere with a chance of getting hurt. But it was the obvious plan. She forcefully pushed the confusing fear aside. "As long as she didn't notice us dancing."  
  
"Hey, I'm just your typical French playboy making the rounds of the beautiful women."  
  
"Just ... be careful, OK? She's dangerous."  
  
"You too." He brought her hand to his lips as the song ended. "Merci pour la danse, Sydney." She shivered, and try as she might, she couldn't convince herself that it was simply a result of apprehension about beating Anna to the medallion and concern for his safety. Vaughn smiled at her, a smile that she found at once comforting and enticing, and she smiled back. Then they parted, each to their tasks, their minds both lighter and heavier than they had been.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Such a stunning lady should not be standing alone." Vaughn held out out a glass of wine to Anna Espinosa.  
  
"Perhaps I prefer being alone." She straightened her spine -- if that were any more possible -- and stared him in the eye challengingly. She took the glass, however. He wished he'd had a knockout capsule to put in it. He was definitely going to start carrying one from now on.  
  
"Perhaps you have not had the right company." He plastered a lop-sided smile on his face -- the one that Alice had accused him of trying to use to get out of her doghouse when the Agency called him away from yet another one of their evenings together. It had worked on her for far longer than it should have.  
  
She looked him up and down as blatantly as he had Sydney earlier. He hoped to God that he hadn't looked as predatory. She put him in mind of a coiling cobra. "And what makes you think that you might be the Ôright company'?"  
  
"I've never had any complaints about my ... company." Inwardly, Vaughn cringed, thinking that if he were Anna, he would slap him.  
  
"You normally have a lot of company, then?" Anna purred.  
  
"Enough to know the good kind when I see it."  
  
She smiled seductively in response, and he wondered just how long he was going to be able to keep up this godawful innuendo.  
  
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm. "There you are, mon cher. I was getting lonely." His heart sank as Monique sidled up next to him possessively.  
  
Anna raised her eyebrows slightly. "Excuse me," she said and walked away from them.  
  
Dammit, dammit, dammit, Vaughn thought, staring after Anna and fighting the impulse to shake Monique's hand off his arm angrily. Had he bought Sydney enough time? 


	3. Rouen 2

After waiting for the guard to turn the corner, Sydney crept down the hall and entered the library cautiously. It was large and lavishly decorated, with more paintings on the walls between the many bookshelves and several marble statues of varying sizes strategically placed on columns and shelves.  
  
The safe was behind a rather gaudy modernist painting of the Eiffel Tower, done in shades of oranges, reds and purples. Marshall's device worked perfectly -- giving her 36873768 -- and within moments she had the safe open. Inside, there were a few bundles of euro notes, several folded sheafs of paper, a large metal box -- and an intricately carved wooden box about the size of a deck of cards.  
  
She pulled out the last item and opened it. Inside was the medallion, resting on a burgundy velvet pillow. She zipped it into the inside pocket of her purse and then reached for Marshall's forgery.  
  
"Turn around slowly and put your hands in the air." The voice behind her was cold and calm.  
  
"Hang tight, Syd." Dixon's voice came through her earpiece. "I'll see what I can do."  
  
Heart sinking, she complied with the voice. Henri Sanguinet stood before her, a sneer on his face and a gun pointed steadily at her chest.  
  
"Arvin's agents are certainly getting more attractive, I'll give him that. Although not more effective. Or are you one of Alain's?"  
  
"I don't know who you're talking about," Sydney said.  
  
"Of course not," Sanguinet replied in a manner which clearly indicated that he wasn't buying her disavowal for a second. "I'm sure you picked up that code descrambler at the local shopping center."  
  
"You'd be surprised what a girl looking for a quick score can get her hands on these days."  
  
"So you're just after money, is that it?"  
  
"Is there anything else worth going after?"  
  
He eyed her up and down, and the lascivious look in his eyes made her sick to her stomach. "I can think of a few other things that are equally worthwhile." She forced a come-hither look onto her face. If she could get close enough to him to grab the gun....  
  
"Of course, I have no need to resort to Ôgoing after' young women who try to rob me and then lie to me. Delectable though they may be. So before I terminate them for incompetence, I believe my guards can do me one more service." Gun still trained on her, he moved toward the desk. Sydney could tell that he was about to press a small button on the corner, one which would doubtless summon any number of reinforcements. She knew that she had to get out before they arrived, or she wouldn't get out at all.  
  
C'mon, Dixon, she prayed.  
  
Suddenly, a piercing alarm shattered the tense silence in the library. Sanguinet's gaze flickered slightly toward the door. It was all the opening she was likely to get, and she seized it. With a swift kick, she sent the gun flying out of his hand and across the room. He snarled a curse and grabbed her by the arm, twisting it sharply behind her. Thank God the adrenalin dulled the pain that shot down her arm. She snapped her head back and connected solidly with his nose. His grip on her arm slackened as he cried out, and she jerked it free before turning to launch a punch at his jaw. He recovered quickly, though, and deflected her fist with his arm. He countered with a punch that she couldn't quite avoid all the way; her ears rung for a moment from the blow to the side of her head.  
  
He grabbed her by the hair, trying to pull her head back sharply. She twisted free of the wig with satisfaction, spinning and planting a forceful knee to his groin. Damned if she'd play fair. As he hunched over, she grabbed one of the marble statues and brought it down on the back of his neck with all her might. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.  
  
A quick glance around the room revealed nothing readily available to tie him up with. She grabbed her purse and hurried from the room.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Vaughn glanced at his watch. Something was wrong. Sydney should have been back by now. He had lost Anna in the crowd almost immediately, thanks to Monique's leech-like advances. He had, however, been able to keep an eye on Dixon. He figured -- hoped -- that as long as Dixon didn't make a move, that meant that Sydney was fine. But the retrieval was definitely taking longer than it should have.  
  
Abruptly, Dixon put down his wine glass and walked quickly toward one of the doors. Not quickly enough to stand out in the crowd, but definitely quickly enough to set off alarm bells in Vaughn's mind.  
  
He interrupted Monique in the middle of some giggly story about ... something. "I have to call my wife," he stated forcefully and took off across the room without a backward glance. Hopefully that would take care of her.  
  
Dixon slipped into a hallway, and Vaughn followed at a discreet distance, ducking into a recessed doorway when Dixon glanced back. Dixon moved a bench from against the wall into the center of the hallway, then climbed on top of it and pulled something from his pocket, holding it up to a barely noticeable round object on the ceiling. Vaughn grinned briefly and was reentering the ballroom by the time that the alarm pierced the din of the party. "FIRE!" he yelled. "The house is on fire! Everybody get out!"  
  
Immediately the room was a mass of people shouting and running in all directions. He ducked back into the hall.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Sydney pulled her hair down as she walked quickly down the hall, shaking out her own -- no doubt horribly flat -- brown tresses. She probably looked like hell, but it was the least of her worries. She needed to get the coin to Vaughn and then get the hell out of here before Sanguinet regained consciousness and sent his goons after her. Hopefully, they would be otherwise occupied for a while. The alarm was still echoing loudly in the hallway, and she could hear excited voices coming from the direction of the ballroom. "Thank you, Dixon," she whispered.  
  
She turned a corner -- and was met immediately by a smirking Anna Espinosa.  
  
"Well, hello again, Sydney. I assume that once again you have something which I need."  
  
Sydney cursed silently and launched a fierce punch at Anna, but Anna was solidly planted and avoided it with ease. She countered with a punch of her own that grazed Sydney's head.  
  
The two of them became a flurry of kicks and feints, punches and counter-punches. As usual, they were evenly matched, neither having a decided advantage. But Sydney knew that she needed to end the fight as quickly as possible; she didn't have time for any prolonged dodge and parry. Recklessly, she aimed a knockout punch to Anna's chin, leaving her body exposed -- and Anna took advantage of it, connecting to Sydney's midsection with a kick that sent her flying backward.  
  
Sydney fell hard to the ground, her purse sailing down her arm and against a pillar. The contents scattered across the floor -- the descrambler, a compact, lipstick ... and the medallion. Sydney gasped for breath that would not come.  
  
"Oops." With a wide smile, Anna scooped up the medallion, blew Sydney a kiss, then turned and ran down the hall.  
  
Sydney's lungs burned, her head spun, and she felt a rising sense of panic. Then, mercifully, just when she thought she was going to suffocate to death, her lungs began to work again. She sucked in air gratefully, greedily, but she couldn't rest. She sat up and opened the purse. Yes, the real medallion was still safely tucked away. After stuffing her other items quickly back into the purse, she stood and moved a bit unsteadily toward the party, which now sounded more like a panic. "I'm fine, Dixon," she muttered. "I'll try to meet you by the front door. We need to get moving."  
  
Before she got more than a few steps, Vaughn rounded a corner from another direction, a frantic look in his eyes. Quickly, she flicked the "off" switch on her transmitter.  
  
"Sy -- Mademoiselle! Are you OK?" he asked, worry as evident in his voice as it was on his face.  
  
"Just need to catch my breath. Two fights in five minutes is a bit much even for me," she said, trying to smile. "And we're secure, I turned off my transmitter."  
  
"Sydney, I am *so* sorry I didn't keep Anna occupied longer. One of the run-ins was with her, wasn't it?"  
  
"It's OK, Vaughn. It would've been long enough if Sanguinet hadn't popped into the library while I was lifting the medallion. I got it, though." She pulled it from her purse and held it out to him. "And Anna got Marshall's fake one."  
  
He shook his head dismissively. "The important thing is that you're OK, Sydney." For a moment, their eyes met and she felt her breath fail her again. Then he pulled the CIA's forgery out of his inside breast pocket, and they exchanged medallions.  
  
"I need to get out of here now," she said, almost regretfully.  
  
"It should be easy to blend into the crowd. It's a madhouse out there."  
  
"I'll see you back in L.A. then," she said. They looked at each other for just a moment longer than necessary. Then they headed back to the ballroom in different directions, into the mass of swarming guests.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Dixon, let's get out of here," she said in greeting as she finally found him amid the crowd. "Nice diversion, by the way."  
  
"Thank God it worked." They began walking quickly toward the side area where the cars were parked. "Syd, why did you turn off your transmitter?"  
  
"Huh? I didn't. It must have gotten switched off during one of the fights. I hit my head when I fell and --."  
  
She broke off at the sight of Henri Sanguinet and a tall, muscled guard coming out onto the front portico.   
  
"Here, take this." She slipped the CIA's medallion into Dixon's hand. "We're not going to make it out of here by car in this traffic jam. I'll give them the slip and meet you back at the hotel, OK?" Before he could protest, she had started across the lawn toward the other side of the house, trying to blend into the crowd. Sanguinet suddenly pointed in her direction, however, and shouted "La elle est!" He and the guard immediately started after her, dodging in and out of confused guests.  
  
She rounded the corner of the house at a run and then halted, pressing herself against the wall. As the guard appeared beside her, she delivered a sharp spin kick to his midsection and a simultaneous heel of her hand to his face. As he hunched over, she followed with another kick to his chin that sent him reeling backward -- into Sanguinet.  
  
The guard's dead weight carried both men to the ground. Sanguinet's gun flew out of his hand and across the grass. She turned and began to run -- only to see two more guards rapidly approaching in front of her. One of them was shouting into a walkie-talkie, clearly calling for reinforcements.  
  
As her eyes darted around, her mind instantly calculating the best avenue for escape, she heard the noise of a motorcycle approaching rapidly from the side. It screeched to a halt mere feet from her.  
  
"Sydney!" She whirled around, hoping it was Dixon, and was shocked to see that it was Vaughn astride the motorcycle. "Come on!" Without a second thought, she ran the few steps between them and jumped on behind him, flinging her arms around his waist. He sent the bike into motion with a roar almost before she had gotten seated. It was not a millisecond too soon, as she felt a bullet whiz past her ear.  
  
They sped around to the front of the house, sending already panicked guests scattering out of their way. She held on tight, trusting him to get them safely away.  
  
He maneuvered the motorcycle expertly through the people that were still milling about the front grounds or hurrying toward their cars, and they sped down the driveway. Thankfully -- and miraculously -- Sanguinet hadn't ordered the front gates closed. Or perhaps the fleeing guests hadn't allowed his orders to be carried out. They dodged around and past the cars that crowded the exit, and then they were speeding down the road from the Sanguinet estate, passing every car they met.  
  
They had gone only a couple of miles before Sydney looked back and saw a single headlight about 300 yards behind them, closing in on them despite their speed. She leaned her mouth against his ear and warned, "We've got a tail. Another bike."   
  
He nodded in acknowledgement and increased their speed. She lay her head against his back, turning it so that she could see behind them. The other motorcycle was no longer gaining on them. The light grew no bigger -- but no smaller, either.  
  
Perversely, it had started to rain. Not hard, thankfully, but more than enough to leave them soaked after only a few minutes. They drove for miles, on major roads and winding lanes, Vaughn taking sharp turns and ignoring speed limits as they left Rouen's outskirts behind them. The light behind them gradually grew farther away and then disappeared altogether. Still they drove. Once, he went off the road altogether and cut across a large, open field on a narrow dirt path that intersected a small paved road; she had no idea how he had spotted it. In fact, strangely, she almost got the impression that he knew where he was going, though she found it incredible that he would know this small farming village that they were now in.  
  
Just when she was about to indicate to him that she thought they had safely given their pursuers the slip, he pulled into the dirt driveway of a rambling, white farmhouse, brought the motorcycle to a halt and shut off the engine. 


	4. Fleury

Delorme Farm  
Fleury, Normandy, France  
  
"Looks like we lost them. C'mon," Vaughn said, climbing off the bike.  
  
She sat and stared at him for a moment, then dismounted. Immediately, he wheeled the bike into a small, empty shed and shut the door that had been standing open. The fairly gentle rain had turned into a downpour.  
  
"Vaughn --?" she began, but he interrupted her.   
  
"Let's get in out of the rain first, OK?" he said, striding up the front steps. Shockingly, he pulled a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the front door. She was too bemused to protest as he ushered her inside the dark house and shut the door firmly behind them.  
  
"We should be safe here. We can hide out for a bit and then get you back to your hotel. I don't know about making your flight from Paris in the morning, though. Not unless this rain lets up."  
  
She barely heard him. "What is this place? Who lives here?" she finally burst out, pushing the dripping strands of hair out of her eyes.  
  
"I do." She shot him a startled look. "Well, I used to. This is where I grew up. Where my mother grew up. We moved to the States to be near my aunt after my father died, but we kept this place. We used to visit every summer until I was in college."  
  
She shook her head in surprise. "No wonder your French is so much better than mine!"  
  
"Merci du compliment. At least it's good for impressing dates in fancy restaurants."  
  
She smiled. "Well, it impressed me."  
  
He glanced at her, unsure how serious she was being. His study was interrupted, however, by a rather pressing observation. "Sydney, you're shivering. Hold on a sec." He quickly left the room and returned in a few moments with several large blankets and a fluffy white robe. "Here. You should, um, probably take off that dress. You're soaked. I'm going to go to the back and get some wood to make a fire. I'm sorry, since I didn't know we would be here, the electricity's not on."  
  
She nodded, amused at how quickly he exited. The tight dress was difficult to take off, the wet material sticking to her clammy skin. She actually opened her mouth in frustration to call for him to help her at one point before snapping it shut in shock. What was she thinking?  
  
She finally wrestled herself out of the dress -- it now seemed to be two sizes smaller -- and hung it up on a hook beside the fireplace before wrapping herself snugly in the robe.  
  
Vaughn clearly was taking his time. She let her gaze wander around. It was a cozy room and looked lived-in despite the fact that no one did anymore. There were two comfortable-looking sofas perpendicular to the wide fireplace and a large, plush, cream-colored rug on the floor. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, and she was a little surprised to see that its time seemed to be correct. It was only a little after midnight.   
  
She could imagine Vaughn growing up here. The thought of him as a young boy brought a smile to her face. He must have been adorable.  
  
She noticed a row of pictures sitting on the mantle. Curious, she walked closer and studied them closely. The first was of a tow-headed boy -- she guessed about seven -- on a pony. She recognized him immediately. He was grinning proudly at the camera, showing off an already-spectacular set of dimples -- and a missing front tooth.  
  
She smiled and looked at the next one. It was of a chubby infant, bare-bottomed and chewing on the ear of a stuffed rabbit that was almost as large as he was. Her grin widened.  
  
"Sydney?" he called from outside the doorway. "Is it OK if I come in?"  
  
"I'm decent."  
  
He came in carrying an armful of firewood and set it down by the fireplace. As he raised up, she held out the picture. "Is this you?"   
  
"Uh, yeah. Why don't we just put that back?" He took the photograph from her and returned it to the mantle -- face-down. She almost laughed out loud at his obvious embarrassment.  
  
She pointed to another one, of a youngish, square-jawed man holding an unsteady toddler by the hands. "This is your father, right?"  
  
He smiled wistfully. "Yeah."   
  
He stared at the picture, seemingly lost in thought. Sydney's heart ached at the sadness in his eyes. "Vaughn, I am *so* sorry. I --"  
  
He looked up immediately, shaking his head. "Sydney, don't. You have nothing to apologize for."  
  
"I know, but it was *my* mother --"  
  
"It doesn't affect us, OK? We agreed."  
  
She nodded. They had agreed. And she knew that he was right. It wasn't her fault. But it didn't prevent the guilt for what he had lost from sometimes rising, unbidden, to prey on her mind.  
  
He smiled at her for a moment, then cleared his throat. "OK, I'm freezing. I think it's time to make that fire."  
  
She sat on one of the sofas and watched him. He had shed his tuxedo jacket and tie, and his damp shirt clung to his muscles as he worked. She couldn't seem to look away from him, and she felt a stirring deep within her. By the time the fire was roaring, her chilliness had dissipated completely, replaced by a suffusing warmth.  
  
He sat back on his heels and glanced up at her. His face was partly in shadow, partly aglow with the flickering firelight, his features in sharp relief. God, he's beautiful, she thought. She had to fight the impulse to reach out and run her fingers through his damp, tousled hair, to brush them against his cheek and over that tantalizing dimple in his chin.  
  
She forced herself to blink and break the spell. "Your turn."  
  
"What?" He looked confused.  
  
She held out a blanket. "You're soaked, too."  
  
"Oh."  
  
For a moment there was silence. She stood quickly. "I'm going to go to the bathroom, OK?"  
  
"Yeah. Second door on the right."  
  
She fled, nearly as quickly as he had.  
  
* * * * *  
  
When she returned, he was sitting on the hearth, wrapped tightly in a blanket. She found herself looking at his bare feet. She had never particularly been interested in men's feet before, but something about his long toes made her heart beat quicker. She had the urge to lay her own smaller feet beside his, to tickle his toes with her own.  
  
Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice her staring at his feet. He held up a bottle and two glasses. "It wouldn't be a French pantry without wine. We may have nothing else, but we have a nice merlot."  
  
"I love the French," she sighed, and then blinked at the implication of her words. His eyes widened for just a moment, then relaxed as he looked down to the floor briefly.  
  
She sat on the rug, close to him but not too close, and covered her feet with another blanket. "It's still really coming down, isn't it?" He poured a glass and handed it to her. She sipped the alcohol gratefully. "Mmmm, it's wonderful."  
  
"I'll be sure to extend your compliments to Etienne." In response to her unspoken question, he added, "My cousin's a vintner in Burgundy. Well, second cousin once removed, or something like that. At least close enough to get a case of wine every Christmas."  
  
She shook her head in amazement. "What other secrets do you have, Michael Vaughn?"  
  
He laughed, a full, deep-throated laugh that lit up his eyes. "I don't have any secrets." The wide, dimpled smile that lingered on his face almost took her breath away. She didn't think she had ever seen a more brilliant, beautiful smile in her life. She wanted to see it more.  
  
"OK, maybe not secrets. But there are so many things I don't know about you. Like *this* for instance." She swept her hand in a wide arc to indicate the room, the house, the country. "I feel so close to you, I depend on you for so much, but I don't know the details, the little things. I want to know those things, too."  
  
He fixed her with his penetrating gray-green eyes. "All you have to do is ask. So ... what do you want to know about me?"  
  
Suddenly, Sydney was speechless. Hundreds of questions spun through her mind, and she couldn't seem to fix on any one. There was too much to ask. Too much she wanted to know. Where should she start? Something simple....  
  
"Where did you go to college?"  
  
He laughed at the easy question. "Stanford. Go Cardinal."  
  
"Good school. What was your major?"  
  
"Are you just trying to lull me into a false sense of security before hitting me with the hard stuff? Political science, with a concentration in international relations. What's your favorite movie?"  
  
"Wait a minute, I thought I was asking *you* questions!"  
  
He raised one eyebrow. "You think I'm just gonna bare my secrets without finding out some of yours in return?"  
  
"But you already know all the important stuff about me!" she protested lightly.  
  
"Not nearly enough, though."  
  
He tried to make his voice flippant, but it came out more serious than he'd intended. She dropped her eyes for a moment but couldn't hide her pleased smile. "It would be cliche to say ÔGone With the Wind,' wouldn't it? So, ÔDead Again.' It's so romantic and suspenseful. Francie and I love that movie. We must have seen it a dozen times. What music do you like?"  
  
He pondered this a moment. "A lot of kinds. But not much new stuff -- it's pretty much crap. Who can listen to that?" He gave a short laugh. "I sound like an old fogey, don't I? I have a lot of Sting, with and without The Police. Peter Gabriel. The Stones. And jazz, I like jazz a lot. *That* is real music. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Nina Simone. Sometimes when I'm feeling Gallic, I'll put on Edith Piaf. What's your favorite book?"  
  
"To Kill a Mockingbird. That's one of the first *real* books I remember. It made me think about what was *right* for the first time. And Atticus...." She shook her head ruefully. "I wanted Atticus to be my father."  
  
"Oh, Sydney," he said in sympathy.  
  
She looked up at him and smiled softly. "It's OK. Really. I know a lot more now. I think I'm finally happy with the father I have." And, amazingly, she realized that she was. They still had a lot of work to do, but she had stopped wishing for her childhood image. The realization pleased her. "What's your favorite color."  
  
"Orange."  
  
"Orange?" she wrinkled her nose. "Whose favorite color is *orange*?"  
  
"Mine!" he said with affected huffiness. "Orange is a *fine*, under-appreciated color."  
  
"You never wear it," she pointed out.  
  
"I do. You just never see it. Orange isn't officially sanctioned by the CIA dress code."  
  
She nodded his point and took a sip of wine, gazing at him over the glass. She had to suppress an unexpected urge to giggle. It had been an insane, stressful evening -- again -- but now she was having *fun*. She realized with surprise that simply sitting here in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a robe, talking to Michael Vaughn, was one of the most enjoyable, relaxing nights she'd had in a long time. Either that was a sad commentary on her life ... or it revealed something important, something that she had been trying to ignore. She took another drink of wine.  
  
"What's your favorite food?" he asked.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The first bottle of wine was long gone; they were well into the second. The downpour had continued, and neither seemed in any hurry to venture back into it. They sat on the rug across from each other, backs propped against the facing sofas. As the alcohol had disappeared, so, gradually, had the simplicity of the questions.  
  
"First kiss?" he asked.  
  
"Billy Reardon. First grade. We wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We immediately decided that it was incredibly icky and adults were gross." She smiled. "First *real* kiss was Andrew Jamison in high school, after homecoming in the 10th grade. He took me to the park and pushed me on the swings. It was ... nice." She lifted her eyes to meet his, lost in the sweetness of the memory. She wasn't quite prepared for the hunger she saw in his eyes, the hint of ... could it be jealousy? His expression triggered something deep within her, and she felt her heart begin to beat wildly, the blood coursing through her veins. The knowledge that had been sneaking up on her all night -- and for a lot longer -- was suddenly overwhelming.  
  
"Most memorable kiss?"  
  
It wasn't his turn again, but she didn't care. Every part of her, body and soul, was being drawn toward him as if by gravity or magnetism or some other elemental, immutable force that would have been impossible to resist, even if she had wanted to.  
  
"This one."  
  
She leaned over and touched her lips to his. It was as if a dam had burst. He responded instantly, his hand reaching to cradle her neck, his fingers twining in her hair, pulling her even closer. His lips were warm and soft and sweet, so achingly sweet, and she knew that she had spoken the truth. She would never, ever forget this moment. They deepened the kiss, tongues stroking and probing, and everything else melted away, replaced by an insistent, unquenchable desire.  
  
When they finally broke apart, they were breathless. He swallowed hard. "Sydney ... we shouldn't," he gasped out, his voice husky with obvious effort.  
  
"I know." But in spite of the seemingly countless reasons why it would be wrong -- it didn't feel wrong. It felt wonderfully, blessedly *right*. She wanted this. She wanted him, more than she would have ever thought possible. More than reason.  
  
And so she kissed him again, and he kissed her back, and the protestations, the words, disappeared. She needed to be closer to him, so much closer, and she pushed the blanket away from his chest, impatient with the soft wool barrier. He responded by lifting his fingers to her neck and easing the loose robe from her shoulders, his mouth never leaving hers. She wriggled eagerly so that it fell to her waist, slipping her arms free and immediately wrapping them around his neck. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest, and the sensation was incredible and exhilarating and still not enough and she wanted to crawl beneath his skin and feel him under hers and why were they still so far apart?   
  
She ran her hands over his arms and his back, reveling in the smooth play of skin over well-defined muscle. Despite his slim build, she could feel the strength underneath her fingers, the power normally hidden beneath those conservative suits, just waiting to be unleashed. She yearned to feel it against her, inside her.  
  
He pulled his lips from hers and she felt bereft, but before she could do more than moan a quick protest, he began trailing his mouth down her neck and shoulder, his lips nipping and caressing a fiery path. She dropped her head back and let the waves of ecstasy overwhelm her, her back arching toward him. By the time he reached her breast, she was hardly capable of coherent thought. She collapsed backward onto the rug, pulling him with her, his weight heavy and welcome and warm.  
  
Their eyes locked for seconds that stretched into an eternity. He smiled at her then, at once shy and sexy, his eyes warm and dark and so full of love that she felt tears well up in hers. She smiled back and cupped his cheek in her hand, her thumb caressing one of those dimples that she had longed to touch for so long.  
  
Their lips met again. And there were no more thoughts of danger or the rain outside or of returning to Rouen anytime soon. There was only them, the fire and the slow, sweet bliss of discovery.  
  
* * * * *  
  
They sat, staring into the newly restoked flames. The rain appeared to have stopped. Sydney was leaned back against him, his arms wrapped around her, one of the blankets wrapped around them both. It was one of the most perfect, peaceful moments that either of them had ever experienced.   
  
She fingered the medallion that she had stolen, the medallion that had ultimately brought them to this place. The formula -- if that's indeed what it was -- didn't make any more sense to her now that it was complete. There were even more strange, unfamiliar symbols on the back.  
  
"Do you think it's true?" she asked him thoughtfully. "Do you think this medallion holds the key to eternal life?"  
  
He took the medallion from her and mirrored her study of it, turning it over and over in his hand. "I don't know. A few months ago, I would have said ÔOf course not.' But for some reason, lately I've been finding myself believing in things I would never have considered before." He kissed the back of her neck and rubbed his thumb against the medallion. "It feels strange, don't you think? Warm. Almost alive somehow." He shook his head and blew out a quick breath at his whimsy.  
  
"I thought so, too." After a moment, she ventured, "Would you want to? Live forever, I mean."  
  
"Only under the right circumstances."  
  
"And what would those be?"  
  
"If I had the right woman living forever with me. I think it would be unbearable living forever without the person you loved. That would be a curse, not a blessing."  
  
She nodded in agreement, suddenly realizing with a sharp pang that they were about to get a taste of that curse themselves.  
  
"This has to be just for tonight, doesn't it?" she asked softly.  
  
He leaned his forehead against her hair. She couldn't see his face, but she knew exactly how it would look, pained and frustrated and resigned. He didn't say anything, but she knew. They both knew.  
  
She turned in his grasp so that she could look at him. He looked just as she had imagined, beautiful and sad, his eyes a little moist. She touched his cheek. "Then let's not waste it." She captured his mouth with hers and bore him down to the floor.  
  
This time, it was wild and frenzied, as if they were trying to fill their coupling with all the passion of all the nights that they would not be allowed. As if it would have to last them forever.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The birds woke him. Once, he would have barely heard them, but that was a long, long time ago. Now it was the sounds of traffic that no longer disturbed him.  
  
Her head rested on his chest, her hair splayed in a wide, brown fan. He simply lay there for untold minutes, unwilling to let go of the moment, the pendulum on the grandfather clock in the corner swinging off the time, the shadows in the room lightening and shortening.  
  
How was it possible to be so happy and so sad at once? So content and so agonized?  
  
Sydney Bristow was lying in his arms, warm and naked and exquisite -- and he didn't know if he would ever get to feel her that way again.  
  
How could he ever live without making love to her again? But now that he had, couldn't he exist on the memory forever, just waiting for another night, just one more night?  
  
Finally, he slipped from underneath her, trying not to wake her. She mumbled his name -- Vaughn, not Michael, and he realized with wry amusement that it still seemed completely normal, just as it had last night coming from her lips as a gasp or a scream. He tucked a blanket around her and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek; her sigh of contentment filled every corner of his soul.  
  
Quietly, he gathered his rumpled clothes and dressed, his eyes barely leaving her sleeping form. He found a pencil and paper and wrote her a note in case she awoke while he was gone. Then he forced himself to walk outside the door, into the bright morning sunlight.  
  
  
Home of Sophie Delacroix  
Fleury, Normandy, France  
  
The front door was flung open before Vaughn had finished climbing the steps to the porch. "Michel!" The slim gray-haired woman immediately enveloped him in a hug. "What a marvelous surprise!"  
  
"Sophie! You look wonderful!" He kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't call first. I didn't know I was going to be here today."  
  
"What, you were just in the neighborhood?" Her still-vivid blue eyes flashed at him in humor as she led him to a seat at the kitchen table.  
  
"As a matter of fact...." He laughed. "And I'm afraid it's just going to be a quick visit. With ulterior motives."  
  
She snorted in a decidedly unladylike fashion. "Always in such a hurry! Michel, when are you going to bring home a young lady for me to meet? It is time for you to settle down, not work so much, make beautiful, dimpled babies for me to coo over."  
  
Vaughn smiled at her. He'd heard this before. "Ah, Sophie, you know my heart belongs to you."  
  
"Merde. And do not smile at me so. It makes me regret my age." She eyed him speculatively. "What of the young woman on the motorcycle last night?"  
  
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, then had to give a small laugh. "You don't miss much, do you, Sophie?"  
  
"Not if I can help it. She is all over you, you know. Is she not the one, then?"  
  
"She's the one ... who can't be the one." He looked up at her, his green eyes suddenly as stricken as any she had seen in her long life, and her heart ached for him. "There are complications, obstacles I can't explain. It's ... too dangerous."  
  
"Michel, my poor dear." She put her hand on his arm. "The heart cares nothing for danger. It feels what it will feel."  
  
He nodded, remembering the intensity of the previous night, the tenderness and fury, the emotions that had swelled his heart, stronger than any he had ever known. Circumstances be damned.  
  
"As long as there is love, my boy, there is hope. And sometimes hope can work miracles. I know. Were not Martin and I a miracle?" She smiled at him. "So I intend to meet this one of yours someday."  
  
He smiled back, her certainty contagious, as always. "Then I intend to bring her to you someday."  
  
  
Delorme Farm  
Fleury, Normandy, France  
  
Sydney was still asleep when he returned, but she immediately awoke upon his arrival, sitting up and wiping her eyes. Her hair was tousled in a thousand different directions and her eyes were bleary with sleep. He thought she looked beautiful.  
  
"Vaughn? Where have you been? Is everything OK?"  
  
"Everything's fine." He set the paper bags he'd been carrying on the floor next to her. "I walked next door and got us some breakfast and some clothes."  
  
Her eyes opened wide then. "Are you sure that was a good idea?"  
  
"I've known Sophie Delacroix all my life. She was in the French Resistance when she was only 14. Believe me, she knows how to keep a secret." He knelt down and began taking items from one of the bags: a still-warm loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, a Thermos of coffee. "She's one of my favorite people in the whole world."  
  
Sydney could sense immediately his regard for Sophie, and she relaxed the tension that had instinctively flared within her. "She must have a lot of stories to tell."  
  
"She does. And she is still as sharp as they come." He looked up at her and smiled. "You'd really like her."   
  
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. "Good morning, Sydney," he finally said, the night mirrored in both their eyes.  
  
"Good morning, Vau -- Michael." She grinned sheepishly.  
  
He chuckled. "It's OK. Nobody's ever made my last name sound sexy before."  
  
* * * * *  
  
They stood outside the house a little more than half an hour later. Sydney looked up at him in surprise.  
  
"You're not coming with me?"  
  
He shook his head. "It would be safer if I didn't. There's a train station just a mile or so away. I'll catch a train to Rouen and back to Paris. Sophie said the 9:35 still comes through every day."  
  
She made no move to climb onto the bike. They simply stood and looked at each other, reluctant to bring the time they'd shared to an end. Each second seemed like the rarest of jewels, more precious than anything in the world. How could they leave this behind? How could they go back to a world where they couldn't know each other like this?  
  
Suddenly, they were in each other's arms, kissing fiercely, deeply, lips sweet and searing. Nothing existed but this final moment of connection, this last infinite gift of a finite few hours that they had not even dared to allow in their dreams.  
  
When they finally drew apart, it was by mutual, silent, painful agreement.  
  
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek softly. He could see the tears in her eyes. "I'll see you back in L.A." he said, feeling his own eyes mist up.  
  
She nodded and lay her hand over his. She wanted to pull him back into the house, bar the door, make love to him again and again, and never come back out. Instead, after a soft, quick kiss to his palm, she turned and climbed on the motorcycle.  
  
He stood and watched her ride away until she rounded a turn and was lost to view -- and even for a few moments afterward.  
  
She didn't let herself look back. 


	5. Back in L.A.

Sydney and Francie's residence  
Los Angeles  
  
"...and then I found out that all the guests were vampires, and I had to serve them *real* bloody Marys, and it was so disgusting."  
  
"Hmmm. Then what happened?" Sydney asked, her eyes fixed on a point in midair somewhere over the sink.  
  
"Syd, you didn't hear a word I said!" Francie accused.  
  
"Of course I did. Wait a minute, did you say something about vampires?" Sydney's attention snapped back to Francie.  
  
Francie sighed in exasperation. "What's wrong, Syd? You've been a total space cadet ever since you got back from your trip. Did something happen?"  
  
"No." Sydney became extremely engrossed in her fork. She shouldn't say anything, but, God, she needed to talk to someone. She had been able to think of little else. And she couldn't talk to Vaughn about this one.... She took a deep breath. "Francie, what would you say if I told you that I kind of ... slept with my boss on the trip."  
  
"What?" Francie's own fork clattered to the table.  
  
"OK, first you have to promise me you won't say anything about this to *anyone*. OK?" Francie nodded, her eyes wide. "There was this fancy party, and we were dancing, and we ended up alone later, and it just kind of ... happened."  
  
"Did he pressure you? Because if he did, you should really report him. Although I guess that would be awkward for you, but he shouldn't get away with taking advantage of --"  
  
"No! It wasn't like that!" Sydney's eyes shot up. "He's not like that. Nobody took advantage of anybody."  
  
"Well, that's a relief. But now you really regret it, and you're worried about your job, right?" Francie said sympathetically.  
  
She should regret it, Sydney knew. It had only further complicated an already-complicated situation. They couldn't let it be anything more. It could compromise their judgment. They had no future, unless they could by some miracle take down SD-6 before they were both old and gray. They could never be seen together in public. It could get one or both of them killed. And yet....  
  
"No. I don't regret it." Sydney's chin jutted forward. "I should, but I don't. It was ... wonderful." The last word was little above a whisper.  
  
"Syd ... are you in love with this guy?" Francie was startled at the almost dreamy look in Sydney's eyes.  
  
Sydney's expression changed to one that Francie couldn't read. "I can't be. We can't be together."  
  
Francie was struck with a sudden, awful thought. "Oh, please tell me he's not married."  
  
Sydney shook her head. "He's not. But he's my boss. It's against the rules. If anyone at work found out about what happened, we'd ... we'd be in big trouble. We might both be terminated. Or we'd be assigned to other departments and not get to work together anymore. And I couldn't stand that."  
  
"Is this job that important to you? I mean, if you think you really want to be with him...."  
  
"It doesn't matter what we want. The job is important. And we work well together. We don't want that to change."  
  
"So ... what are you going to do?" Francie still didn't understand, but Sydney's mind was obviously made up. She'd never known Syd to be so ... fatalistic. Of course, she'd never known her to sleep with her boss before, either.  
  
"Nothing. There's nothing we can do. It was just one night." Sydney stood and put her plate in the sink.  
  
One night was all they could have.   
  
For now. 


	6. Back in L.A. 2

CIA headquarters  
Los Angeles  
  
Vaughn put down the phone. Thirty-three years old, and damned if his palms weren't a little sweaty from making a phone call to a girl. And the only thing he'd had to say was "Joey's Pizza?"  
  
He didn't know what the hell he was going to do the first time he saw Sydney again. He knew what he *wanted* to do, but pulling her into his arms and kissing her for three days was the last thing he *should* do.   
  
They *should* go back to their working relationship, the way it had been before their one night in France. Their one glorious, passionate, soul-searing night that could still take his breath away just by thinking about it.  
  
The problem was, he needed to stop thinking about it. They needed to be able to go back to being just an agent and her handler. It was too dangerous not to.  
  
But could they? Was it possible? Did he even want it to be possible?  
  
Vaughn cursed silently to himself. Why couldn't they just be normal people with normal lives who could go on normal dates and have normal -- OK, mind-altering -- sex? Of course, he sighed, if they had normal lives, they would never have met and she would be happily married to someone else.  
  
"Going to see Sydney?" Weiss' voice almost made him jump. Vaughn hadn't noticed him standing just inside the doorway to his office.  
  
"Yeah, she is my agent, you know. Occasionally, I am required to see her." He regretted the sarcasm in his voice the second the words left his lips. "Sorry."  
  
Weiss raised his eyebrows. Then, without a word, he shut the door to Vaughn's office and sat down in front of his desk. "OK, Michael, what really happened in France?"  
  
Vaughn stiffened. "What do you mean, 'what *really* happened'?"  
  
"I read your report -- now don't get all pissy about that -- and there was something different about it. It was as thorough as usual -- until the end. I doubt anyone else would notice, but I got the impression that you'd left something out."  
  
"Why would I do that?"  
  
"That's what I'm asking you. You've been completely bipolar every since you got back. One minute you're grinning like a fool at nothing in particular, and the next you're biting some temp's head off for taking the last Krispy Kreme. I'd lay odds it has something to do with Sydney Bristow. It usually does."  
  
For just an instant, Vaughn wanted nothing more than to tell Weiss what had happened. God knows he could use somebody to talk to about this. But ... definitely not here. "What the report says is what happened. Period." He stared at Weiss steadily. Weiss stared back. They sat like that for several moments before Weiss finally relaxed his posture.  
  
"OK, no more third-degree. Just promise me that you were careful. That you'll *be* careful."  
  
Vaughn blinked. Was he projecting, or was Weiss actually giving him a lecture on safe sex? It suddenly struck him that they had been far from "careful," and he had no idea whether Sydney was on the Pill. Which meant that he had one more thing to worry about. If he thought their lives were complicated *now*.... "Careful?" He hoped that his voice didn't sound as strangled to Weiss as it did to him.  
  
"The last thing you need is for Haladki to wind up with any more ammunition against you."  
  
For once, the subject of Haladki was a relief. "He won't."  
  
Weiss grunted. "Take a signal disrupter."  
  
"What?"  
  
"When you meet with Sydney. Go by Tech and get a signal disrupter. Just in case."  
  
"You think Haladki is surveilling our meets?" The concept made Vaughn at once furious and nauseated.  
  
"I don't know. I'm just saying, if you and Sydney have something to talk about that you sure don't want anybody else to hear, it wouldn't hurt."  
  
Vaughn blew out a breath and sat back in his chair, running his hand through his hair. "Thanks, Eric," he said with sincerity.  
  
Weiss nodded and stood up. He started to leave, then turned and glanced at Vaughn. "You're gonna tell me someday, you know that, right?"  
  
Vaughn couldn't keep a small smile from playing about his lips. "Yeah."  
  
"Just so we're clear. Now go see her before I have to take you out for the good of the office."  
  
He did.  
  
---------------------  
  
Author's Note: I apologize for the brevity and lateness of this update. My muse plopped down on the sofa and refused to do any inspiring whatsoever during the Olympics, and she's only now beginning to recover from all the figure-skating angst. You will get their first warehouse meeting eventually. 


	7. Entrepot

Author's Note: You'd given up hope of ever seeing this, right? Frankly, I almost had, too! I had a lot of trouble with it, so I hope it's at least partially worth the looooooooong wait.   
  
  
Warehouse, City of Industry  
  
Thank God Francie hadn't been home when Vaughn called, Sydney thought. She didn't know if she would have been able to delay her rush out the door long enough to avoid suspicion. Just hearing his low tones saying those two words she'd heard him say countless time before had sent a shiver all the way down to her toes, bringing immediately to mind the sound of his voice as he'd murmured into her ear or gasped out her name. She had barely even remembered to grab her keys. All she could think about was seeing him again.  
  
But now she sat in her car outside the warehouse, her stomach as full of butterflies as it had been on her first mission with SD-6, when Dixon had teased her that he could hear her heart all the way across the room without the microphone. She wished that she had stopped to touch up her makeup or change into something a little less casual than her red tank top and well-worn khakis.  
  
She took a deep breath and got out of the car. As she reached out to open the warehouse door, she realized that her hand was shaking slightly. Dammit.  
  
He was pacing when she turned the corner, but he stopped immediately at seeing her. God, he's beautiful, she thought, her breath catching in her throat. The sight of him in a blue Oxford and his shoulder holster had always caused her heart to race a little, but today it was more like a stampede.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hi."  
  
For a moment, they simply stared at one another, smiling slightly and a little awkwardly. What do I do now? she wondered, feeling slightly panicked. Hug him, kiss him, thank him, stay three arm's lengths away from him?  
  
His smile widened a bit, causing his dimples to appear, and her stomach fluttered for a different reason. Was it possible that he had somehow become even more gorgeous in the past three days?  
  
"I've missed you," he said softly.  
  
"Me too."  
  
"You look pretty today."  
  
She could feel the heat rising on her cheeks. "I look awful." She couldn't stop the giggle that rose in her throat, and she wondered when she had become sixteen again. It wasn't as if no one ever complimented her, but he had a way of making the words mean so much more.  
  
"You could never look awful."  
  
All the breath seemed to be sucked from her lungs at the expression in his eyes. She couldn't remember anyone ever looking at her with such naked adoration, not even Danny. It was almost overwhelming. How could she possibly inspire that look in someone's eyes? She had to drop her gaze before her knees gave way.  
  
Her gaze fell on the device on the table. "Is that a signal disrupter?"  
  
"Uh, yeah. Weiss suggested I bring it, in case we needed to talk about ... things."  
  
"You told Weiss about us?" Her eyes shot back to him.  
  
"No, of course not! He was just -- he thought that Haladki might be bugging our meets to get ammunition against me. He thought we should be careful."  
  
"Oh." Her mind whirled. The thought of someone listening to them made her instantly queasy. This was their place, their haven. They weren't supposed to have to worry about things like that here. They were supposed to be safe here, safe from Sloane and SD-6 and certainly the CIA. They needed this place.  
  
He continued, his words tumbling over each other. "But what Weiss said, about being careful, made me think -- Sydney, we weren't. We *really* weren't."  
  
She eyed him in confusion, not sure what he was talking about. "What?"  
  
"*Careful*."  
  
She realized then what he meant. Her eyes widened. Inexplicably, disappointment and anger surged within her. "And now you're terrified that I might be pregnant! God, Vaughn, is that like the first thing you could think about?"   
  
He flinched at her tone. She saw the hurt darken his eyes and was immediately sorry for her words. "Do you think I would --? Sydney, I was worried about *you*. About Sloane. We *have* to be worried about that. The consequences...."  
  
Her eyes softened. She didn't understand the pain that had stabbed at her, but it was gone now. She knew him better than that. "I'm sorry, Vaughn. I know. But it's OK. I'm on the Pill. I took one that morning, and then when I got back to the hotel. I know it would be a disaster."  
  
"A disaster," he echoed, his voice tinged with bleakness. "It should be --" He broke off with a frustrated sigh, shaking his head and glancing upward.  
  
They stood in silence for a few moments.  
  
"Are you sorry it happened, then?" she finally asked softly, not realizing until she'd voiced the question just how worried she had been about his answer.  
  
"No! Never." His eyes flew to hers. "Are you?"  
  
She shook her head. "Not for a second. Vaughn, it was ... perfect."  
  
"For me, too. Sydney ... you know I've wanted you for a long time, right?"  
  
She blushed a little. "I thought, probably, maybe. You knew ... I wanted you too, didn't you?"  
  
He shook his head a bit ruefully. "No. You've clearly got a better spy-face than I do." He smiled, but then almost instantly grew serious again. "I knew you cared, but I didn't think you really felt that way about me. I thought it was just me."  
  
Her heart twinged at the echo of pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I tried so hard to hide it. And I think I was afraid to really admit it, even to myself, because it was so terrifying. I knew that I couldn't bear to lose you. But I figured you saw through me. You always seem to for everything else." She reached up to caress his cheek, smoother than the last time she had touched it.  
  
He breathed her name, closing his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, they glittered at her, calling to her, and her body answered instantly. She leaned up to seal her lips to his, the warmth that she had remembered for the past few days spreading throughout her. His lips were even sweeter than she had remembered. This time, they tasted of coffee instead of wine, but the effect was just as intoxicating. The warmth flared to heat as the kiss deepened, tenderness quickly turning to passion, before she leaned back slightly. "I want you, Michael Vaughn," she said plainly, in case he still had any lingering doubts, and pulled him closer to her with the leather of his shoulder holster. His gun pressed against her side, and instead of being uncomfortable, it excited her even more.  
  
Sensations new and remembered flooded through her, a cacophony of emotion and desire. She could never get enough of this, of him. The dam had burst, and there was no more holding it back.  
  
He hoisted her to sit on one of the crates, and she wrapped her legs around him, reaching for his belt with eager hands. Her need for him almost shocked her with its immediacy and intensity. He slid one of her tank straps down her arm as he kissed his way along her neck and shoulder, then grabbed her hips, pulling her firmly against him as he recaptured her mouth. She moaned deep in her throat and moved against him, hands working to free his belt, yearning to feel him inside of her again, already ready for him....  
  
Suddenly, a loud crash reverberated in the warehouse. They broke apart instantly, hearts racing even more than before. Vaughn's hand automatically went for his gun, and Sydney flew to her feet.  
  
A large yellow cat streaked across the floor, its tail full and bristled. A small crate lay broken open, empty, on the floor near where it had appeared.  
  
"Dammit," Vaughn gasped. "It was just a cat."  
  
They looked at each other, the sick knowledge written clearly in their eyes. What if it hadn't been just a cat?  
  
Silently, he refastened his belt, and she slid the strap of her tank top back onto her shoulder.  
  
"Dammit," he said again, this time softer, sadder.  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the tears that threatened to fall. "Nothing's changed, has it?"  
  
He reached for her hand, their fingers entwining. "Well, now we both know. I don't have to wonder if you feel the same way anymore." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly.  
  
"What are we going to do?" She felt as if she had been punched in the gut. Although no 250-pound henchman had ever packed such a wallop.  
  
"Keep on wanting each other, I guess." His attempt at flippancy hung heavily in the air.  
  
It will get easier, she thought. It has to, doesn't it? Surely my body won't ache with want every time I see him. Surely I won't feel the shadow of his hands on me every night when I go to sleep. Surely I won't feel lonely every morning when I wake up without him.  
  
Looking up at him, though, she doubted all those possibilities. How could being without him ever be easier now?  
  
They stood silently, hands joined. "What's my counter-mission?" she finally asked, her voice faltering only slightly.  
  
"Just pictures of the documents Sloane wants." He walked to the metal table, not releasing her hand, and she followed him. "Drop this camera in the trash can by the back door. We'll have an operative ready to retrieve it."  
  
She nodded and put the tiny camera into her pocket. They stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, and yet also the merest of seconds. She took a step backward, and then another, and another, until her fingers slipped from his. With a great effort, she turned away and walked toward the door, a chill settling deep inside her.  
  
"Sydney." She stopped immediately and looked back over her shoulder. "Good luck in Lisbon."   
  
His green eyes were soft and full of longing. She wanted more than anything to run back and kiss him again. But she didn't. She simply smiled at him sadly. And then she left.  
  
When she got to her car, she sat for a moment, blinking back tears. This was hell. How were they going to endure this? She took a deep breath.  
  
They would, though, she thought, resolve coming from somewhere to strengthen her spine. And they wouldn't have to endure it forever. She was as sure of this as she had been of anything. What they had was too good, too wonderful. They *would* be rewarded someday. If she thought they would never get to be together again, then she wouldn't be able to go on. Hope for them was as necessary to her as air now.  
  
There had been no declarations spoken, no promises for the future. They were both too much realists for that. But they had made them all the same. And now when she thought of destroying SD-6, it wouldn't be for vengeance for Danny. It wouldn't be for justice or the safety of the world. It would be for her and Vaughn and the promise of more than one night, the promise of every night.  
  
For that, she could endure anything.  
  
THE END 


End file.
